


heita

by Siria



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Episode: s02e10 Ki'ilua, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:32:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heita, <i>vb</i>. Old Norse. to call, name, promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heita

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to sheafrotherdon for both the inspiration and for the beta job!

Jenna had been expecting it, but there was still no way to brace against it, against the bright bloom of pain in her chest as the bullets hit: one, two, and she was falling backwards, it hurt, it hurt too much to breathe, it _hurt_ , and dimly she could hear Steve screaming and—

—and around her it was dark, black as night seen through the eyes of a scared child, but when she looked down she could see her hands, her feet. Jenna pressed her hands to her chest and felt nothing but smooth, warm skin, the unperturbed beating of her heart. She took a deep breath, tried to fight back the panic that bubbled up from deep in the pit of her stomach. She'd been shot, she knew she had; she'd _felt_ it, felt the sickening snap of her ribs and the collapse of her lungs. How could she be—where _was_ she?

Jenna turned in a slow circle. There was nothing around her but emptiness as far as the eye could—couldn't?—see. She clenched her fists and turned again, more slowly, in the childish hope that maybe this time things would be different, and swallowed back a scream when her second revolution brought her face to face with a man who hadn't been there before.

He was angular and tall, but stooped so that he was almost nose-to-nose with her. His eyes were focused; his hands where they emerged from the dark green of his shirt were so pale that Jenna had the impression that if she were to touch him, her fingertips would freeze as if she’d touched a block of ice. There was nothing of Wo Fat's cruelty in his expression, but no kindness either, just a sense of great and opaque calculation.

"You," the man said after a moment, "are not supposed to be here. But then again _I_ am not supposed to be here, so if you vow not to tell my brother on me, I shall not tattle on you."

"Uh," Jenna said eloquently. She'd read studies about people who'd had hallucinations during near-death experiences, who saw pastoral landscapes and long-dead grandparents as their brain-stems protested their oxygen starvation, but she'd never come across a case study which detailed an experience like this. Of all the adjectives she might apply to the man standing in front of her, none of them were 'comforting', 'serene' or 'imaginary.'

"Now," said the man, leaning back—and what he was leaning against, Jenna couldn't say, but his posture spoke of confidence, as if he was sure that the very stuff of which the space around them was made would do his bidding. For the first time, Jenna could see that far off in the distance behind him there was a faint suggestion of a glow, as if the sun was struggling to rise above an Arctic horizon. "Despite all the Midgardian stories, we're not truly omniscient, so you'll have to give me a little something to start me off."

"What?" Jenna said, blinking. "I don't know what you're—"

He sighed, rolling his eyes. "Revealing your name is the most traditional option, but anything you have of power will do—a favourite memory, a wish, a secret."

Jenna swallowed hard against the sudden reminder of her most heartfelt wish ( _Josh_ ); her most terrible secret ( _sitting across from Steve at that picnic table, her heart hammering in her throat, hoping against hope_ ); and before she could compose herself enough to say her name, the man smiled.

"Jenna Kaye," he said, voice full of satisfaction, as if he'd just discovered something gratifying.

She folded her arms. "How do you know my—"

"It's my business to know the tricksters," the man said. "And you just tried to pull off a very big trick, didn't you, Jenna Kaye? On your closest friends, no less. I do like _grand_ gestures."

"It wasn't like that!" Jenna protested, thinking of Josh's still, slumped form in that chair; of the look in Steve's eyes when she'd aimed her gun at him.

"Oh, I know," the man said. The smile on his face was not at all soothing. "But an even bigger trick was pulled on Jenna Kaye, and so here you are." He spread his arms wide for a moment, and though his clothes were plain and close-fitting, when he moved Jenna had the vague impression of a cloak spreading out around him, dark and rustling—as if he encompassed more than what her eyes could see. "A trickster tricked and caught on a boundary line, not quite in Midgard anymore, but not quite anywhere else, either. The only thing you want more than vengeance is the ability to prove yourself. Excellent combination." He dropped his arms, clicked the fingers of his left hand and a flame appeared, balanced on his palm. It burned with a strange, green tinge.

Jenna tried to back away from him, but it was like walking on a treadmill—no matter how many steps she took, or how quickly, she never seemed to get any further way. "I don't know what's going on," she said, pressing the heel of her palm against her breastbone, feeling disoriented all over again at the fact that she wasn't bleeding, at the feel of intact flesh. "I don't—"

"It's all right," the man said. "It's just that I have something of an admiration for the underdog." He tilted his head. "Sometimes. This time." The light in his hand flared and became difficult to look at directly—not because it was too bright, but because there seemed to be something inside it, shifting and strange. "And I've always liked a good trick."

"What—"

"And this is one of the best. The element of surprise is so useful," the man said. The light flared more and more, growing until it seemed to encompass them both and there was nothing Jenna could do _but_ look—nothing but stare at the blaze of colours around her, the brief impression of a bridge far below her and of immense speed—and the man was saying something, murmuring words in her ear that she couldn't quite make out and—

—on a bunker's cold, concrete floor, Jenna opened her eyes wide and breathed in.


End file.
